Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike (7 page)

When his season ended, he came home bearing good news.

"BJ got us tickets to a boxing match in Tampa, do you wanna go?" Justin asked.

"You're damn right I do," I affirmed.

We took a flight the next day, landed in sunny Florida and I was able to get my first peek at BJ's lavish lifestyle. Two Mercedes sat in the driveway of his three-story condo overlooking the water and he waited at the front door with his enormous Rhodesian Ridgeback to greet us.

"You boys ready to do this?" BJ said with a smirk.

He gave us the tickets and told us we were meeting at Scott Kazmir's condo on our way there. I acted like it wasn't a big deal, but I thought it was pretty cool to meet Kazmir, who was an all-star that just led the American League in strikeouts.

"Hey man, I'm Brad, nice to meet you," I said, when Kazmir opened the door.

"Welcome to my castle," he replied in a debonair manner.

Kazmir took out his credit card and placed it inside a baseball hat.

"We're gonna order some food. Justin and BJ put your cards in this hat. Whichever one Brad picks is paying for the meal," he announced.

I pulled one out and it was Justin's, much to his displeasure. Kazmir was a fun guy to be around and this was a life I could get used to.

The four of us walked across the bridge from Harbour Island and made our way to the St. Pete Times Forum in downtown Tampa.

After a night on the town, which was full of the best looking women I ever laid eyes on, we retired back to BJ's place. I fell in love with Tampa, in just one day, so I sat down on the back deck and had a talk with BJ.

"I want to live down here," I told him.

"You should," BJ replied.

"I'm telling you, if I come, I would have a girlfriend within a month," I predicted.

You know what they say – be careful what you wish for.

I transferred to Norfolk State University in the spring; it was the third division-1 school I attended and it was also, historically, an all-black school.

Fitting in isn't a problem when you're a social chameleon. All you have to do is adopt their mannerisms, speak their slang (of which I am fluent) and you're good to go.

The biggest perk of being there was this: I didn't have to worry about playing time. Every day I went to the field I knew I was starting catcher and I was batting third in the lineup. This was the comfortable feeling I wished for in previous years, and having it paid off big time.

I finished the season batting .364 and was second-team all state in Virginia (not to mention being named the 'Black College Baseball Player of the Week').

Being able to successfully overcome years of adversity made me feel proud at the end of the season, because it was the first one I finished. My inner dignity expanded when the Washington Nationals called and invited me to a pre-draft workout at their major league stadium.

Instead of using the remaining week until the workout to train, I regrettably flew out to Arizona and watched Justin play. It seemed as though anytime I was close to obtaining a goal my heart truly desired, my self-destructive nature would take over; I was afraid of my own success.

Seated behind home plate, under the bright lights of Chase Field, I watched Manny Ramirez hit home run after home run when but I should have been in Virginia preparing so I could step on that very field one day as a player...not a fan.

However, my trip wasn't entirely unbeneficial. Watching the games motivated me but most of all, I was able to sit down with Justin, in his plush Arizona condo, and get professional advice before going to D.C.

"You need to go all out," Justin said.

"Ok," I attentively listened.

"There are people out there really getting after it, you can't hold back. Don't go out there trying to make contact when you hit, swing for the fences. Everyone can hit a ball; you have to show them you can do more than that. Go all out and walk away either having the best workout of your life or the worst. Don't be average," Justin sternly advised, before picking up his Xbox controller and starting our next game of Halo.

He was right, and I was going to keep those words in mind. It was amazing to me how grown up he was for only 20 years of age, baring more responsibilities and pressure than most of us have in a lifetime.

Justin dropped me off at the Phoenix airport the following day – I was on my way to Washington, D.C.

I awoke at 4am in a cheap hotel just a few blocks from the Nationals stadium. I couldn't sleep and I could see the field from the window in my room so I just sat there staring at it. Ever since I was a little kid, I fantasized about being a professional baseball player, and the opportunity was now at my fingertips.

A few hours passed and then I parked, grabbed my dusty equipment bag and made my way in to the locker room. This was my first glance of a major league clubhouse and I was thoroughly impressed. Flat screen TV's mounted the pillars in the center of the room, soft carpet covered the floors and each locker was made of rich mahogany.

The Nationals scouting director entered the room and made an announcement: we were going on a tour to get an inside look of the stadium.

We visited the training room first, which was filled with high-tech machines many of us never knew existed. Then we visited the press box, which was remarkably elevated from the stadium seats to give a birds eye view. He led us back to the locker room and then told us to get dressed – our workout was about to begin.

The field was unbelievably well manicured but the most glaring feature was the
enormous
scoreboards and video screens beyond the outfield fence. It was breath taking, but I didn't have time to take it all in our first task was the 60 yard dash.

In short, I didn't do so well. It was a combination of naturally lack luster speed and being ill prepared. Nonetheless, I looked forward to the next task hitting.

I kept Justin's wise words in mind while I placed a Nationals helmet atop my head, which was cool because it was adorned with one earflap, a feature only available in professional baseball.

The first pitch came in and I swung with all my might, launching the ball to the left-center gap and watched as it one-hopped over the outfield fence. The next 9 balls were crushed, and one of them hit the lofty fence in right-center. I guess you could say I
almost
went all-out.

Last on the list, was throwing times, my greatest strength. I shot out like a cannon and rocketed 5 balls to second base and 5 to third base. I knew I did well, so I approached the scouting director on my way out.

"What'd you think?" I asked, confidently.

"We'll be in touch," he responded, before shaking my hand.

Draft day came a week later and I was anticipating good news. I wouldn't call it wishful thinking because I did well enough at the workout. I did have one big liability in the form of my blemished past.

So I sat in my room at home, door closed, watching round after round slip by without my name being called. After 25 rounds, I came up empty. Still, there were 25 more rounds the following day and I thought that's where I would land if I were selected at all.

Day two arrived and I locked myself in my room once again. Both elbows pressed firmly against the desk, my face just mere inches from the screen. I was close enough to see each tiny pixel fill up with a new name, but none of them were mine.

The Nationals selected their last catcher in the 46
^th
round and they chose a 17-year-old Dominican kid. Without question, I was bitter.

I went to sleep without leaving my room and woke up the next morning internally afflicted. I wanted to know why I wasn't picked and I needed answers so I did what most people wouldn't do; I called the head scout from the Nationals.

"So why didn't you pick me?" I asked.

"Your name was on our list, and I recommended you but ultimately it's not my decision. There's nothing more I could do," he explained, when he probably didn't have to.

"Oh ok," I irritably uttered.

"I'll tell you what. There's a tryout in the Cape Cod League for a temporary position with the Bourne Braves. I can call the coach and get you a spot if you'd like but there's no guarantee how long you'll be on the team," the scout offered.

"Absolutely, I'll leave tomorrow, thank you," I eagerly replied, before hanging up.

It was three very long years since my first stint in Cape Cod, a figurative rollercoaster of ups and downs mostly downs. Somehow, I managed to build myself back up, and one courageous phone call enabled my foot to slide back in Cape Cod's gateway to success.

After crossing the Bourne Bridge and settling into my new host family's house, it was time to prove I belonged. I descended down a steep hill into the valley our field rested on, more focused than ever.

First impressions are everything, especially when you're trying to make a team. So I jutted my shoulders out and gave each person I met a death-gripped handshake. I knew there was another catcher in this pool of sharks competing for the same temporary position, my position, and I didn't know who he was yet. I couldn't allow him to shake my hand without one of his knuckles popping out.

Contrary to popular opinion; baseball is actually an individual sport. You can enter a team with the mindset to be nice, and you might make some new friends. However, if you want to claim your position, you have to outwit those competing against you.

So, in essence, I was looking for my competition on the first day in Cape Cod and it was mandatory to be an alpha to his beta.

After a few unnecessarily rough handshakes, I found him. He was from a big name school, Wake Forest, and I was the underdog from a school most, if not all of them, had never heard of. So I used it against him.

"Hey, you're from Wake Forest eh?" I asked.

"Yeah," he replied.

"Did you even play?" I questioned his pride.

"Yeah, I started all year," he said, trying to qualify himself to me.

"Oh, I've never heard of you," I replied, before briskly walking away.

The 'tryout' was extended into the first game. The Wake Forest guy and myself each played one inning apiece. When the game was over, we both finished 0-1 at the plate and made no mistakes on defense.

Our coach, a gray-haired man with short stubble on his wrinkled cheeks, called the two of us into the outfield for a talk. I assumed one of us was being let go and the other would stay on the team.

"I appreciate both of you coming up here, but unfortunately we don't have an extra spot on the roster. I need each of you to turn in your uniform tomorrow before you leave," the coach said, to both of our dismay.

We weren't even given a chance to respond, the coach hobbled off as if there were nothing left to discuss. Apparently he didn't know me.

I strategically waited until the other catcher drove away; still surprised he cowardly accepted such a bleak outcome. Just before the coach opened his car door, I asked to speak with him – I wasn't going to let this opportunity slip away so easily.

"Coach, I respect your decision but I can't leave. Do you care if I stay on the team as a bullpen catcher until another team picks me up?" I asked, boldly.

"I have no problem with that, but you won't have a uniform and you'll have to stay in the bullpen during the entire game." The elderly coach said, after smiling to signify his appreciation for my audacious request.

"That's fine with me," I told him.

"Also, we can't allow you to stay with your host family since you're not officially on the team. Is that going to be a problem?" the coach asked.

"Not at all, I know a girl up here who will let me stay with her," I fictitiously stated.

I didn't know any girls up there. Sometimes it's ok to lie to get what you want, and this was definitely one of those times.

Once he drove away, I turned around and stared at my new home; a black four-door Acura RL sedan.

After retrieving my belongings from my old host family's house, I filled up on gas and found a scenic parking lot overlooking the banks of the Cape Cod Canal.

I laughed to myself the first night as I rested down in the backseat with the engine still running, using excess t-shirts as covers and pillows; I genuinely found my own situation amusing.

I woke up to a golden sunset each morning, drove to the nearest gas station, charged my phone and called every team in the league asking if they were in the market for an extra catcher. No one at the field ever bothered to ask why I smelled like an old catchers mitt after failing to take a shower day after day.

This repetitious routine carried on for two weeks until one day the phone rang.

"Hey Brad, I'm with the Y-D Red Sox, are you still looking for a team?" the man asked.

"Yes, I am," I adamantly told him.

"Ok, I talked to your coach at Bourne, you come to our field early today so we can get a uniform for you," the man summoned.

"I will be there," I casually responded.

Inside, I was jumping with joy. I could have left, just like the Wake Forest kid had done two weeks ago, but now I was on my way to being rewarded with an official roster spot – persistence is key.

My new competitive environment with Y-D was different. For the first time, I was playing with another catcher who I admitted was better than me. His name was Tony Sanchez, from Boston College, and the Pittsburgh Pirates would later confirm his prowess when they selected him 4
^th
overall in the draft. For the time being, I needed to craft a new plan if I wanted to get playing time, so I did what previously proved to be effective...I lied.

"Hey coach, I can pitch if you ever need someone to burn a few innings for you," I said with a straight face.